CHAPTER FOUR HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FOUR
Sunday morning — 8:01 a.m.
New York City, New York
Aden stepped out of the taxi at the address where Nuala said she was staying staying. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. With five steps up to the front door, the apartment building looked like any other apartment building in Queens. He knew from the Internet that Nuala was staying in a living community where she had a nice apartment and one roommate. The living community had buildings all over the city and throughout the country. Her only restriction was that she had to stay sober and she couldn’t break the law.
Aden had scowled when she’d told him last night.
Her very presence put her within one hundred feet of Nash and Noelle. She was, right at that moment, breaking the law. She was furious when he brought it up. Standing there on the sidewalk in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen, Nuala had called Aden every name in the book. The less he reacted, the more she screamed. When a New York Police Cruiser pulled over, Aden was afraid they’d arrest her. He managed to get her into a cab with the promise of meeting her here this morning at eight o’clock.
Now he stood outside this building, on another sidewalk, staring up the five steps up to the front door, in another part of a city that he didn’t live in. He sighed and wished he’d had gone to breakfast. Would Sandy think he was weak if he just went back to Seth’s or better yet, Vancouver? He scowled and looked down at the sidewalk.
There was no way he could leave this for Nash and Noelle to work out. He was the dumbass who picked an insane woman to be the mother of his children. This was his problem. He had to deal with it now before it got out of hand, and it always got out of hand. His mind flashed on scenes where Nuala had endangered their children. Rage pulsed through him. He would not let that happen again. As fast as his rage appeared, it drained away, and was replaced by resignation. Nuala was who she was. This was what she did, what she always did. He had no one to blame but himself. He sighed and looked up at the door again.
“Just have to get through the door,” Aden said.
Feeling movement, and prepared for the worst, Aden turned abruptly to find an aged man in an expensive three piece brown tweed suit carrying a briefcase. He wore a bowler hat, brown leather gloves, and a deep purple silk handkerchief in his suit pocket.
“That bad, eh?” the man asked with a smile.
His jovial tone caused Aden to relax. His accent was somewhere between P.G. Wodehouse’s Jeevs and the Scottish guy who used to have a late night talk show. Aden squinted to see if he’d remember the talk show host’s name. The man gave him an expectant grin.
“I just have to do something …” Aden said.
“It is always hard to do things we have to do,” the man said.
Denver Cereal continues tomorrow…
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